"…And Protect Your SOLDIER Honor" Part One
Since their inception, video games have been vying to become a legitimate storytelling medium. From Pac-Man’s simple tale of ghost-busting bravado to Dragon Quest’s Japanese spin on D&D swords ‘n’ sorcery, even early games attempted to provide players with compelling plots to back up their sometimes nonsensical gameplay. But if one were to plot out the pivotal points in gaming’s evolution as a storytelling medium, while Pac-Man and Dragon Quest would certainly snag invitations to the show, Final Fantasy VII would likely receive top honors. Regardless of its inferiority to Final Fantasy VI, FFVII introduced to players a fantastically beautiful, movie-esque world that (at the time) existed in a class of its own. Most importantly, FFVII is the game that set many developers on their quest to make gamers cry. Aerith’s death at the hands of the manically insane Sephiroth sent legions of gamers searching for a way to revive their favorite pink-clad flower peddler, but none succeeded. It seems fitting, then, that FFVII’s prequel, Crisis Core, is one of the best examples of character death in video games yet.
When Aerith blocked Sephiroth’s 12-foot long katana using only her midsection, gamers were shocked. This character who, in all likelihood, they had recently taken on a “date,” couldn’t die. It was madness. Crisis Core turns this idea on its head; anyone who’s played Final Fantasy VII (released in 1997) already knows Zack Faire is going to die. It’s been in the books so long, it has three or four special editions. So, if shock isn’t the catalyst for sadness here, then what is? Simple: Square Enix puts you, the player, in the shoes of this cheerful, exuberant, idealistic character — infusing you with his dreams and goals — for 20 hours. Then, after you’ve become comfortable in Zack’s shoes, they brutally snuff out his light; bullet-ridden and soaked in blood, Zack — a hero in the truest sense — dies. You steered him down this road, knowing it was a march to his untimely death, and secretly, you probably hoped he’d find a convenient trap door exit and escape at the last minute, or get carried away by the Turks, or something. But he didn’t, and you can’t help but regret it.
This concept of regret gives rise to Square Enix’s most brilliant decision in regard to Zack’s death: you play his final battle. After controlling his every step for so long, it’s only fitting. Faced with thousands of uncaring Shinra troops, guns gleaming in the desert sunlight, Zack chooses to make his stand. “There’s a high price for freedom,” he quips, and then, Buster Sword raised, he charges into battle. As you dodge missiles, avoid machine gun fire, and cleave hundreds of soldiers into thousands of half-soldiers, the DMW, Crisis Core’s central gameplay concept, is going crazy. See, throughout the game, the DMW acted as a back-end while creating the illusion of slot-machine randomness. Every time it landed on multiple matching numbers, Zack would gain a special stat buff, use an earth-shatteringly powerful attack, or even level up. These events, however, were packed with Zack’s personality; each number on the DMW’s wheel is attached to the portrait of a character in the game, and Zack’s emotions play into that. So, for instance, when the DMW grants you triple-Sephiroths, Zack might flash back to a comical scene wherein he tells Sephiroth to go on ahead while he engages a gang of bloodthirsty beasts, only to turn around and find that Sephiroth has already mangled them in the blink of an eye. And while Zack is hacking and slashing desperately to hold off the Reaper, the DMW is “malfunctioning” — Zack’s life is flashing before the player’s eyes. Sights, sounds, voices, events, joy, anger, love — everything is spewing out of Zack’s mind as a mournful reminder of all he’s left undone. At the same time, however, these DMW scenes aren’t overt tear-jerkers; they’re all over the place.
Come back tomorrow for part two of “…And Protect Your SOLDIER Honor,” where I’ll be discussing Square’s subtlety, Zack’s regrets, and why Tidus and Zack probably play on the same Blitzball team in Final Fantasy heaven.
Unspectacular Wreck Brethren
So, you’re watching your favorite TV show and the cast is huddled together on a nondescript couch with equally nondescript game controllers in their hands. From that information, you can probably deduce that they’re playing a video game, although these days, the prevalence of the Wii-mote might make that judgement a little more difficult (four-player channel changing, anyone?), but I digress.
Everything’s fine thus far, but suddenly your ears are wracked with pain, as though someone had run their nails down a chalkboard or told a Chuck Norris joke — it’s those insidious stereotypical bleeps and bloops that characterize mainstream television’s apparent grasp on video games. “Blasphemy!” you bellow, arms akimbo in a show of disgust — how can they portray gaming in a such a backward manner? In response, you do what any responsible gamer would do; you jiggle your mouse, rouse your computer from sleep mode, and surf over to your favorite gaming forum to complain. Now, here’s the clincher: would you be shocked if your fellow gamers held an opinion of gaming nearly as backward as the good people at ABC, or even Fox? Well, in a way, many of them do.
In a semi-recent post on her blog at Sexy Videogameland, Leigh Alexander had a few choice words about the appeal of Super Smash Bros. Brawl. “If I had to review Smash Bros., in other words, would you as an audience rather I factor in my emotional response to Nintendo iconography, or should I discard it as personal?” she asked. “Does your answer depend on your own opinion of the iconography?”
Leigh eloquently ponders a question that’s been surging through the gaming community as of late, mostly as a result of Smash Bros’ recent release: should character content influence reviews of a game, or should it be based solely on gameplay? Now, let’s complete Leigh’s little experiment by not only removing Nintendo characters from the equation, but the entire game altogether. And let’s replace it with, say, Portal. Should we judge Portal, a triumph of character and storytelling in games, based solely on its gameplay? Of course not.
Look at it this way: without GLaDOS’ frosting-coated morbid personality, would Valve have dedicated half of its staff to adding a trophy room to their building?* Sure, portals were a novel gameplay concept, but objectively, a two hour pack of portal puzzles hardly sounds like Game of the Year material.
And so, I believe we absolutely shouldn’t disregard characters when reviewing a game. The very idea is as antiquated as Pac Man’s ubiquitous death knell and other such sound effects. Back in the day, we could’ve flung a bucket of black paint on the original Pitfall’s main character and there probably wouldn’t have been much of a difference — outside of the inevitable comparisons to Nintendo’s Game and Watch character, anyway. Nowadays, however, characters are inextricably tied to our gameplay experiences — Portal, Bioshock, and especially Smash Bros. are excellent examples of this. In Smash Bros’ case, does this mean a portion of the audience won’t derive full, Nintendo nostalg-tastic enjoyment out of the game? Yes, but then, someone with only a passing interest in fighting games is unlikely to ever derive full masochistic pleasure from Virtua Fighter 5, so it just comes down to different strokes for different folks.
As gaming continues to stretch its wings as a storytelling medium, the importance of characters will only grow. It’s simply a matter of time before the question asked by Leigh and like-minded gamers won’t even be a question anymore.
*I’m kidding. They’re actually constructing a new building from the ground-up.
Lost Odyssey: Old is the New New
How many games have we seen that open with an oily, grimy battle of Lord of the Rings proportions? Don’t strain your brain on this one — just know that the number will soon equal the number of combatants in such battles. The reason for this mass replication should be obvious; giant battle scenes are really freakin’ cool. But guess what: so are many tools used in other mediums of storytelling. And like an admiring younger brother, videogames tend to piggy-back off their older brothers’ successes. Now, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but little bro’ isn’t so little anymore; he’s ready to come into his own. Soon, his stories will be unique and individualized, but right now, he’s going through that awkward, in-between phase. Lost Odyssey on the Xbox360 lives in that gap — residing on the same console as Portal, Bioshock, and Half-Life 2, yet still managing to exclusively utilize storytelling techniques from both film, and more impressively, literature.
Lost Odyssey’s overarching plot really isn’t all that impressive. Picture Final Fantasy VI, but with more politics. Basically, it’s a scrappy team of heroes versus a maniacal, back-stabbing manipulator dressed in funny clothes who constantly sucks-up to royalty. And I’m only getting started; the heroes include, among others, a young pair of twins clad in masterfully starched capes and collars, a spunky pirate girl, a lady-killer in thief’s (extremely flamboyant) clothing, and a brave yet stoic main character. But see, this is why Lost Odysseyis so surprising — these characters are beautifully crafted, and you’ll be enjoying them far too much to dwell on their initial stereotypes. For instance, Jansen, the hybrid thief/mage, does exactly as you’d expect of his character. He’s money-hungry and womanizing at first glance, but soon, his rocky exterior breaks away, and a gleaming, golden heart finds itself bashfully clutching its revealed body. Even in the face of such an obvious character progression, however, you can’t help but love a guy who, when told that he wears-out too quickly, quips, “At least I don’t wear-out in bed!” And then there’s the hilarious interplay between Jansen and Seth (pirate girl) that only further exemplifies the playful spirit Lost Odyssey exudes.
Seriously, those capes have to be made of cardboard or something.
In this respect, Lost Odysseygreatly resembles fellow Xboxian, Mass Effect. Mass Effect took a well-traveled story pattern — a hero journeys across galaxy chasing a significant evil, only to discover a bigger evil — and a seemingly cliched cast of characters, and polished them until anything reflected in them actually looked nicer than the genuine article. But while Mass Effectpreaches a minor progression in videogame storytelling — player-controlled conversations and plotlines — Lost Odyssey is content to find a selling point in recidivism. It doesn’t simply revel in cinematic qualities like cut-scenes and dramatic slow-mo — although it surely contains plenty of both – but also tears a page straight out of literature’s book.
One could argue, in fact, that Lost Odyssey’s literature-esque qualities are its finest. At the very least, they’re the game’s most obvious differentiating factor when compared with other games of its genre. See, Lost Odyssey’s hook — if you will — is that its main character is immortal, and as such, many of his memories have been lost to time’s ravages. Before long, however, Kaim begins having flashbacks of his daughter jumping from her “favorite play area” which was — I kid you not — a cliff. Flashbacks that don’t involve misguided rappelling attempts unfold in the form of actual short stories — text accompanied by only a few musical tracks and simple sound effects. These stories turn Kaim from a silently seething lead to a tragic hero. Many of his strongest memories are littered with crushing regret that, frankly, could only be done justice in written form. Kaim proves that immortality is truly a vice, whether it’s the unpredictable death of a wife and child or a horrifying war story. But at the same time, his stories inspire hope. His immortal viewpoint allows him to marvel at many spectacular events inspired by human beings’ knowledge that life is distressingly finite.
Yeah, Kaim’s that kind of immortal.
If only Kaim’s tale could be told through more modern gameplay and story methods, but such a change would be akin to tossing a cat into a bathtub — the whole experience would move unnaturally, seem awkward, and probably leave you with a few scratch marks. Foremost, the battle system is the perfect analogue to the game’s story. That is to say, it’s slow and detailed, with intermittent rewards. No battle can be won through an arrogant “Look Ma, one hand!” display of single-button mashing. Instead, expect to learn about your enemies, and even then, spend a few turns dismantling them. So now let’s perform a little thought-experiment; imagine Mass Effect’s fast-paced battles and conversations married to Lost Odyssey’s short-stories. Yuck. I wonder who’s getting the nice china? In other words, it just wouldn’t work. What if, right in the middle of an adrenaline-fueled fire-fight, the game asked you to read a tale about your character’s encounter with a shoe-maker? Sorry, no dice.
That’s not to say that there aren’t any causalities resulting from Lost Odyssey’s outright slaughter of modern gameplay and narrative techniques. I mean, by the time you reach the second disc, you’ll have practically developed a random-battle sense. Unfortunately, avoiding those battles isn’t quite as simple as back-flipping and shooting webbing from your wrists. Or at least, not as straightforward. And when the game’s Unreal Engine 3-powered graphics are so high-res that you can actually see veins on one of the game’s more buxom characters, it’s a little odd to watch enemies and allies alike line up for battle as though it were marching band practice.
Overall, though, Lost Odyssey epitomizes old-school videogame storytelling. In some ways, it spins a more powerful yarn than its trail-blazing brethren are capable of. Sure, old-school game design has its drawbacks, but it has its place as well. Maybe in the recently rumored sequel, we’ll get to see Hironobu Sakaguchi and company try their hand at game design that’s as deceptively innovative as its accompanying story. But until then, I’m perfectly content with Lost Odyssey’s traditional approach. After all, kids shouldn’t grow up too fast.
Raiden Done Right
Since I’m still shifting and straining to squeeze into this relatively brand-new blog, I’ve decided to do a little experimenting. The first bubbly concoction you’ll bear witness to is a somewhat tried-and-true formula (we can’t all create an evil, alternate ego potion on our first try): the theme week. As such, most — if not all — of this week’s blog posts will focus, in some way, on story in gaming. Now, I’m not promising a cohesive collection of articles here, although a couple of them might connect in ways most profound. You’ll just have to read them all to find out.
Over the past few years, gaming has grown from a mostly-juvenile form of entertainment and escapism to a legitimate medium of artistic expression. Story and characters have evolved tremendously: whether you consider Bioshock’s Andrew Ryan, whose madness is chronicled through tape recordings placed conveniently throughout the failed utopia of Rapture, Half-Life 2’s (yes, Half-Life 2, specifically) Gordon Freeman, who never speaks a word, yet develops a near tangible bond with Alyx Vance, or Portal’s Glados, a maniacal A.I. who practically is the game’s story, you can’t deny that gaming — plot and character foremost — has come a long way.
Oddly enough, however, of all the colorful characters gaming has produced in the past couple of years, I find myself most drawn to the main character of a game that, for all intents and purposes, stuck its fingers in its ears and loudly sang “Lalalalalala” while other titles pushed gaming forward. The game? Devil May Cry 4. Now, I’m not saying DMC4 is a bad game; it’s an over-the-top, sword-swingin’, demon-bashing, good time. But if you can — without averting your eyes — tell me that it does anything other games in its same genre haven’t, then you probably also draw creepy, homoerotic pictures of characters from the series and sell them on Ebay, and you scare me. Now go on — shoe!
Of course, by now, anyone with even a passing knowledge of DMC probably would’ve guessed that the chatacter I’m talking about is perennial uber-badass, Dante.
And they’d be wrong.
Snowy-haired and cloaked in red, Nero might as well be a professional Dante impersonator, sharing a walk of life with the likes of Elvis #134 and most every anime fan. But look beyond the superficial and you’ll find that Nero stands strong in his own right; in fact, as a character, he accomplishes what even Raiden of Metal Gear Solid 2 fame could not: he surpasses his gruff, more experienced counterpart.
(See the resemblance?)
When we’re first introduced to Nero, we see him running down a slightly decrepit, gothic-styled alleyway. Ostensibly, he’s trying to reach Kyrie (his girlfriend) before she finishes singing a melody so loud that it seemingly pervades the air waves of an entire city. But the path to a giant, imposing chapel is always fraught with danger, and it’s not long before Nero is drop-kicking puppet demons in sloooow moootion. So yeah, Nero is just as slick as Dante, and also shares his appreciation of professional wrestling. And when the two white-haired wonders meet in battle, the fireworks really fly.
Here’s the funny part, though: in spite of all the obviously over-the-top similarities the two characters share, Nero comes off as infintely more believable. See, Dante’s too cool to express any emotion, save for an arrogant sense of snarkiness. This has its benefits in a series like DMC, where the storyline tends to become fairly heavy, and sometimes depressing. On top of that, you typically play as a lone hero, with nary a sign of company in miles worth of dank castle. Soon, however, you begin to notice that Dante wise-cracks about everything, and much of that crackin’ wise isn’t even clever. (Capcom’s writing staff is partially to blame, but I digress.) Dante begins to devolve from the Legendary Son of Sparda and demon-hunter extraordinaire to an exaggerated manifestation of early-onset mid-life crisis.
That’s why Nero is such a breath of fresh air; sure, he does his share of mouthing off to creatures who are 20 times his size and an infinite number of times more on-fire, but he’s brash and young. Plus, there’s an air of seriousness that pervades Nero’s mission; Dante just seems like he’s saving the world for the hell of it. Now, those fairly minor discrepancies are somewhat noticeable, but when Kyrie is kidnapped, Nero really comes into his own. He becomes a man possessed, a single purpose driving him through horde after horde of demons. And most importantly, when Nero is captured by his enemies and all hope seems lost, he uses his love for Kyrie — and his utter determination to save her — as motivation to unlock his greatest powers.
This inspiring — yet admittedly cliched — love story is tied inextricably to the yarn which the game spins. Nero devotes himself completely to Kyrie’s rescue, and he never looks back. Even though Nero spouts one-liners with typical Capcom proficiency and punches legions of demons with an ethereal demon arm, you never lose sight of his human side. So when Nero’s sure he’s lost Kyrie forever, it’s no surprise that he falls to the ground and weeps*. It’s bitter, too — let’s just say that his demon arm still packs quite a punch when it’s repeatedly slammed into the ground in dejected fury.
But it fits. And it’s a perfect realization of the idealized nerd love story. In essence, DMC4’s story is what every nerd dreams of: a knight-in-shining-armor situation where the hero is driven to save his girl, yet the he’s far from perfect. He falls, he fails, and we identify with him. Raiden’s problem was his lack of “knighthood.” While he was certainly just as down-to-earth as Nero — if not moreso — but he lacked any semblance of heroism. I mean, who wants to hear a blonde, long-haired picture of androgyny gripe at his girlfriend when he should be deftly snapping the necks of enemy soldiers? Raiden was too human, whereas Nero, who’s suitably part-demon, strikes a perfect balance between human empathy and heroic might. Raiden only served to hold up a mirror and direct the spotlight back onto Solid Snake; Nero steals the spotlight and never stays out of its warm glow for long.
(Maybe in Metal Gear Solid 4, my friend; maybe in Metal Gear Solid 4.)
Just as the advent of a new current generation of consoles signifies change in the videogaming world, Devil May Cry’s new residence on those consoles heralds a change in the series. Nero leads the charge, both hands raised in the air — one human, the other demon. Long live Nero, Devil May Cry’s new hero and a believable character in a medium that sorely lacks more of his kind.
*Yes, a Devil did Cry. Good job making that connection. You’re the person who named your character “Zelda” in The Legend of Zelda, aren’t you?
